Evolving
by AllusionToAnIllusion
Summary: Everything evolves. Relationships progress. People change. She was never really a big believer in the idea that people can change, but now that's the hope she clings to.
1. Chapter 1

He can hear her in the kitchen, messing around in the cupboards and pulling the mugs from their home. (Cabinet right above the stove. The one with the door that sometimes sticks if you don't pull it from the right angle.) He can't see her, but he knows her coffee making process well enough to estimate that he has a few minutes left before she comes back. Of course, she knows exactly what he's doing. She's perfectly aware that he's scanning her bookshelves, scrutinizing her taste in literature and at looking at every photo on display.

It's an unspoken agreement between them that he's allowed to snoop through anything that's in plain sight. She pretends not to notice, and he doesn't bring up any conclusions he might reach for a respectable amount of time. Usually she sends a snarky comment his way as she leaves the room, telling him to stay away from her stuff. She never means it. They both know that. But she always does, just to keep up appearances. Only this time she left in silence, no warnings or threats left her lips, the corners of which had been curiously making their way north.

"Here." He startles at the sound of her voice, a coffee mug suddenly thrust in his face. He puts down the magazine he'd been flipping through, taking a grateful sip of his coffee.

"Thanks. I have a feeling someone is going to keep me up all night if that's what it takes." He smirks and she reaches out to smack his chest, narrowing her eyes at him as his smirk only gets bigger.

"Yeah, well, you don't need to be here, Castle." He finds a finger in his face. "Come to think of it, how much time have you actually spent with your daughter lately? She leaves for college in a few weeks."

"Oh no," he reaches out and grasps her accusing finger with his own, lowering it and grinning at her raised eyebrow, "you're not going get rid of me, Katherine Beckett. Partners, remember?" She nods, not even trying to take her finger back.

"Partners." He thinks he sees something flicker behind her eyes, but it's gone before he can study it too closely. Something deeper. Something that's been buried so long it looks foreign. "I'll go get the case file. We can work on the couch." She turns and walks back to the kitchen where she left her bag, grumbling about how her so-called partner doesn't stick around when she is stuck with paperwork.

Setting his mug down on the coffee table, he swivels around and sets his sights on discovering something new about her before she returns. He looks at it like a game, a race against the clock to peel back another one of her layers before she catches him. He has a hunch that she wouldn't mind but it makes it more fun if he pretends that she would.

Instead of locating a quirky little figurine or an unconventional book, his eyes settle on something much darker. Heavier. He finds himself staring at her mother's murder board, still taking up too much space on her shutters and window. He's suddenly hit with how appropriate it is, the placing of the one case that refuses to leave her alone. Blocking off the window, preventing the light from shining through. How very, very appropriate.

Only now he notices more light leaking into the apartment, bare spots that were once covered by theories and clues and evidence and anything that could possibly have a connection to that night. Some of his own notes are gone, the ones he added after they started working it again. Together. Partners. That had been their compromise that night, the night he told her about all he'd been hiding.

She wanted him to stop; he wanted to keep her safe. He knew she'd keep investigating it on her own, he knew there was no way she'd leave it alone. Not when he could see the look in her eyes, however dim it was in the room. She looked hungry. The embers of her need to know crackling as they ignited after so long, a need that could only be sated by answers. And so they compromised. They were in this together up until the end.

The meat of the case is still hanging on the wall, but the little notes they'd made, all of those new yet small advances they'd discovered, the knowledge they'd strived for in the past few months – all of it was gone. He thinks that maybe she's moving it. She's hanging it up in a less conspicuous place where guests can't possibly find it. Where people she doesn't trust can't accidently come upon it. Yeah, maybe that's it.

"So I was thinking, who directly benefits from Andrea's death? Her husband. If they got divorced, then he got nothing. But if he kills her, he suddenly comes into a whole bunch of money. Certainly enough to get himself out of trouble." He turns around and sees her setting stuff down on the coffee table, pushing his mug out of the way to make room for a stack of papers. He backtracks, tries to replay what she just said in his head. He was too busy prying into her personal life. Too busy putting her in the line of fire by helping her solve something that almost got her killed.

"But everyone said that they were happy, completely in love. What about Wolfsheim? He could've killed her to send a message to Charlie, to show that nobody messes around with him and dodges consequences. He certainly has the means, and everyone knows he has nothing against a little collateral damage where money is involved." He feels the rush taking over, the excitement of building theory consuming him.

He plops down next to her on the couch, maybe a little closer than he should be but she doesn't seem to notice. Or if she does, it doesn't look like she cares. She's just as far gone as he is, surrendering to the pull of new information and theories to dissect.

[][][]

"Ugh," he rolls his neck and hears a satisfying crack, "maybe we should take a break." He looks over at her as she raises her arms above her head, bending backwards a little in order to stretch. They've both been in the same hunched over position for far too long. Plus, he's starving.

"Time to find some dinner?" She asks just as her own stomach growls, voicing its approval of that idea. He laughs and stands, holding out a hand for her before he can think about it. To his surprise, she takes it. She let him help her up. Wow.

"It's decided then. Let's get some food in your stomach before there's a mutiny." He turns and heads for her kitchen, slowing for a moment when he realizes he's tugging her along behind himself. He's still holding her hand. They've been holding hands and he didn't even notice? He's really got to straighten out his priorities. She must feel him slow and realize just after he does because she quickly snatches her hand from his grasp. But he knows it happened. He can feel the lingering warmth from her fingers curled around his own and sees the blush creeping up her neck and onto her cheeks. He'll let it slide. For now. "So what are we eating?"

"And by that do you mean 'Beckett, what pathetic mish mash of questionably edible things do you have in your fridge?'" She crosses her arms and lifts an eyebrow but he sees the smile in her eyes, the way the sides crinkle as she suppresses a betrayal from her lips.

"Yeah, that pretty much sums it up." He nods and smiles at her, moving past her to open her fridge. When he sees the inside, he gasps. "Beckett, you actually have food!"

"Castle," she rolls her eyes at him before pushing him out of the way to start gathering ingredients, "I know you like to cling to the false belief that I live out of a takeout bag but I do actually cook when I have the time."

"So I'm assuming that miracle occurs about once a year?" He teases and expects an eye roll or a shake of her head as a reward for his efforts, but instead she does something completely un-Beckett, so unlike the detective he's come to know over the years. She sticks her tongue out at him. And, even more than that, she does it like it's nothing, going back to piling ingredients in a bowl as if nothing had happened. "Di–did you just stick your tongue out at me?"

"Yeah." She looks over at him and shrugs, seemingly not understanding why he's staring at her with what is probably a dumbfounded look on his face. After a few moments of her sneaking slightly concerned glances at him, his face breaks into a grin that he has absolutely no hope of controlling. Kate Beckett just acted like a carefree child. How often does _that_ happen?

"You stuck your tongue out at me. Never thought I'd see the day." For that, he does get an eye roll before she resumes cutting up what looks to be chicken. "What are you making? And will it actually be edible?"

"I'm making stir fry. And yes, it will be edible, you jackass." She reaches across the kitchen island and punches his arm. He pouts for a moment, rubbing his injured arm.

"Wiseass not jackass. It's an important distinction." It is. He doesn't need her associating the word jackass with him. Not if he plans to get by those walls. Especially not if he plans to help break them down.

"Oh, yes. Forgive me, Master Wordsmith." She's being sarcastic. He knows that. Doesn't make the fact that she called him a wordsmith any less awesome.

"I'm going to ignore that and instead tell you that whatever you're making certainly _smells_ edible." He reaches into the pan and plucks a piece of chicken from the mixture, popping it into his mouth before frantically waving his hand in front of it. Hot. Hot. Crap, that's hot.

"I'm going to take that as a compliment. But you still deserve what is probably going to be a burnt tongue." He frowns at her as he chews, feeling his tongue start to tingle. Damn. "Done. Can you get me some plates?" He grabs the plates from their designated spot and sets them down on the counter, pulling out two glasses as well and filling them with water. She plates their food, rummaging through a drawer before holding two forks up triumphantly. "Dig in, wiseass."

He narrows his eyes at her for a moment before shoveling the food into his mouth. He didn't realize how hungry he was. But judging by the pace Beckett has set, she didn't either. "Wow, this is really good!"

"See?" She stops eating for a moment to shoot him a saucy grin. "I can actually cook."

"You've been holding out on me, Detective." He raises his fork and points it at her, waving it around as food dangles from it.

"Had to make sure you were gonna stick around before I gave up my well-kept secrets, Castle." She says it like a joke, like she's just teasing him. But he can feel the undercurrent.

"Well, I'm glad you've figured it out then." She furrows her brow and he elaborates. "That I'm definitely sticking around." He sees realization dawn on her face as she grins, an expression that probably matches his own.

"Me too."


	2. Chapter 2

She reaches into the microwave but jerks her hand back when the bag is much hotter than she expected. She forgot. She hasn't done this in a while. She blows cool air on her fingertips, about to cautiously try again, when there's an excited knocking at the door. She briefly wonders how exactly a mere knock can be classified as excited before remembering who's on the other side of that door. If there's anyone who could manage it, it'd be him.

"Hey, I made popcorn." She opens the door, moving aside as he makes his way in. She tries to peek into the plastic bag filled with what she thinks are DVDs but he seems to know exactly what she's planning, transferring it to his other side. Damn.

"Trying to sneak a peek at the selection for tonight?" Yeah, she's been caught. But she can't really bring herself to care, her curiosity winning in the end.

"Just trying to prepare myself for the inevitable suffering." She quirks her lips up in a teasing smirk, knowing that her eyes will tell him that she doesn't actually mean it. They always do, revealing more than she wants to say. Castle has been rubbing off on her in that way.

"Hey now, do not knock my tastes in fil – wait, you made popcorn?" A bark of laughter escapes her upturned lips as she makes her way into the kitchen, holding a hand out toward the microwave as if to tell him that he should see for himself. "Finally admitting that a movie night without popcorn is a sin, Detective?"

"More like I'm trying to spare my ears of listening to your whining all night. It's hardly a sin, Castle." She folds her arms over her chest, raising an eyebrow at him as he reaches in and takes the bag out of the microwave, holding it by the tip. She should've known that trick.

"It's the eleventh commandment, Beckett." He's making his way around her kitchen, pulling a bowl from a cabinet and dumping the popcorn in even as he pulls glasses from their own place. It strikes her exactly how much she likes this sight – him comfortably mulling about in her kitchen like he spends his days and nights here. That's not too far off, actually. "Thou shalt not have a movie night without popcorn. Just accept it."

"Never." He turns to her with narrowed eyes and she thinks he's going to throw their customary banter right back at her but instead he just holds out the glass of water he must have poured for her when she wasn't looking. When she was too busy daydreaming about seeing him making her breakfast in the morning before work, watching him scrambling around by the counter with his coffee sloshing out of his cup as he desperately searches for his keys. "Thanks, so what have you picked out for tonight?"

"I have two classic choices and I can't make up my mind so I've decided that even though it's my turn to pick I'll let you have the final decision. See how nice I am?" They've made their way to her living room, her carrying their glasses as he carries the popcorn and their movie choices.

He still won't let her see them. Damn him and his love of surprises, particularly surprising her. She thinks that he just likes torturing her, playing with her until she can't take it anymore. But then her mind goes in an entirely different direction that has nothing to do with popcorn and movies so she likes to stay away from that particular thought.

"If I'm going to decide then you're gonna have to show me the choices at some point." She makes another grab for the bag after setting down their waters but he just pulls it out of her reach yet again.

"Patience, young padawan."

"Geek."

"You like it." She does. It's adorable. But she's not going to tell him that.

"I believe you have that backwards. You love it when I bring up comic books and spaceships." Raising an eyebrow, she gives up on trying to see what he's decided that their choices are and plops down on the couch. He sets the bag down on the ground, rooting through it for the movies.

"That's true. It's sexy as hell." She rolls her eyes even though he's not facing her, holding in the laugh that wants to be let out. "Okay, so these are the choices for tonight." He turns back to her and holds up the movies. This time she can't help but let that laugh loose.

"You really couldn't decide between the two, Castle? Casablanca and Elf?" She raises a hand to cover the smile she can feel forming as he pouts at her, looking positively affronted.

"I'll have you know that these are both classics." Shaking her head at him, she takes the DVDs from his hands and examines them.

"I cannot believe you're putting Elf in the same league as Casablanca. _That_ is a sin." She feels the couch dip as he sits down, shuffling around and getting comfortable because he's Castle and he's absolutely incapable of sitting still. She smirks when she hears him start moving pillows around.

"Just stop teasing me and decide." She looks up at that, eyebrows rising.

"Oh, and now you're ordering me around?" She narrows her eyes at him and by the way his face pales slightly she's pulling off a stern look nicely.

"Please stop teasing me and decide?" It comes out as a question as he braces for a smack to his chest or a twist of his ear. She doesn't do either of those things, instead choosing to pat his knee as a sign that he did well and finally put him out of his misery.

"We're watching Casablanca." He grins as he hops up before she can, snatching the disc from her grasp and setting it up.

[][][]

She glances over at him again, noticing that his gaze hasn't returned to the screen. He seems to have stopped watching the movie a while ago, instead choosing to stare at the wall. Huh. If he didn't want to watch the movie then why the hell did he pick it? He knows not to waste his turns to pick.

Turning back to the movie, she decides to let him continue to study the wall if he really wants to. She's not going to push him. If something is bothering him, he'll come to her eventually. When he's ready. She's willing to respect that distance and wait given the amount of waiting he's done for her.

He's been waiting for her for years. Waiting for her to man up and gather the courage to give into what she wants. Waiting for her to realize that locking herself away from the world and throwing away the key isn't the solution. Waiting for her to repair her heart.

Yeah, she's willing to wait. It seems tiny and insignificant but it's just another way to thank him for not giving up on her, for not moving on. She knows it must be hard on him, standing there resolutely as she slowly struggles to catch up. So this is just another small way of subtly repaying him, of showing him that if he's willing to do it then so is she.

She hears him shift next to her. She noticed a while ago that when something is bothering him it makes it even harder for him to stay still and when she glances at him out of the corner of her eye she finds that he's staring at her now, seemingly studying her face.

She feels a fluttering in her stomach even as heat travels to her cheeks. Goddamn, she's blushing. She's gone from finding it creepy when he stares at her to loving the way his eyes seem to trace the line of her jaw and memorize the way her lashes brush her cheeks when she blinks. Goddamn it.

"Kate?" She feels her blush deepen at the sound of her first name passing his lips. That's a much more common occurrence recently but she's not used to the hesitant yet reverent way he's just said it in the quiet darkness of her living room, the only other sound the soothing notes of a piano and a man's voice singing about time passing by. Yeah, this is not a setting where he's used her first name before.

"Yeah?" She turns her head to look at him, finding an expression that perfectly matches his voice – hesitant yet reverent.

"Your mother's murder board." Oh. _Oh._ He always was too observant for his own good.

"What about it?" Play dumb. Prolong the inevitable.

"Stuff is missing." She looks away from him, instead setting her gaze on her fidgeting hands as they rest in her lap. Her bottom lip finds its way between her teeth as she worries it.

"Yeah." She doesn't want to have to explain this to him. Not now. The only one who knows about it is Dr. Burke and that's only because it was partly his idea. She thought she'd have more time, but did she think that he wouldn't notice it when it's sitting there completely open for him to see? She just can't bring herself to close it. Not yet.

"Why?" She doesn't answer him, at least not with words. She turns her head back to him, lets her eyes tell the story. She knows that's answer enough. She knows he'll understand. She doesn't know how, but he always does. "You're taking it down." His eyes widen as the weight of that statement hits him, his body staggering back a bit as if something actually collided with him.

"Yeah." She has to stop it with these one-word answers that don't give anything away. He deserves more from her. Hell, he deserves more than her but for some reason he refuses to see that. He deserves to be let in. "I'm trying to let go of it." She didn't think it was possible but his eyes widen further.

"Kate," she studies him as he tries to gather his thoughts, "she's your mother."

"No, I'm not letting go of her, Castle. I'm letting go of the case." She knows that's a tough distinction to make for him because it was just as hard for her. Her mother had turned into that case, a harmful juxtaposition that had kept her from living for far too long. No more. That case is not her mother. Her mom is much more than a few files and an ache in her heart.

"Why?" She knows he's not trying to stop her, he just can't figure out why she'd do let go of the one thing that has defined her entire life since that night. Her heart breaks at the confusion in his voice, the furrow of his brow that she just wants to smooth with her fingers. He knows that this case is a huge part of the wall keeping them apart, and yet he still doesn't understand why she wants to stop letting it control her. He puts her before himself. God, this man. This stubborn, infuriating, all too wonderful man. She doesn't deserve him.

"Because I need to. I need to get out from under it, stop letting it run my life. I've let it drive me. I've let it define my life. But I refuse to let it keep me from living. Not anymore." She reaches out and rests her hand on his knee, willing him to understand. She wants him to understand. She doesn't quite understand why, but she needs him to know.

"So you're letting it go." His eyebrows are still knit together, but he seems to be getting it. "You're letting your mom's case go." He says it again, testing the words on his tongue as if he can't quite believe them but he's trying. She can tell he's trying.

"I'm trying to be different, more than what I am. I'm trying to be whole." _Because only giving you half my heart isn't fair. _He reaches out and rests his hand on top of the one she's placed on his knee, squeezing as he sends a tentative smile her way. He understands. He gets it. For some reason, that thought lets loose a megawatt grin that she can't even begin to try and suppress.

"I'm gonna be whole." _I'm gonna give you all of me._

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><p><em>As some of you may have guessed from some of the lines in this chapter, this story was partly inspired by the song All of Me by Matt Hammitt (I may have resolutely ignored the fact that he wrote it about his son). If you wanna check it out, I'll put the song up on my Tumblr (link in my profile) so that anyone who wants to listen to it can do so. <em>

_Review? Please?_


	3. Chapter 3

His hand has been suspended in front of her door for the last five minutes as he decides between knocking and just going home. Sure, he's been showing up a lot more frequently over the last few months. Hell, _she's_ been turning up at _his_ apartment without warning. But those nights are movie nights, marathons of the TV shows one of them used to love and the other has never seen, celebratory dinners after a case, sometimes even just dinner because they're bored and he misses her. Though he'll never say it aloud, he has a sneaking suspicion she misses him too.

But that's just it. All of those other times, those late nights and sometimes even Sunday afternoons, she's wanted him there. She's never really said it, but she's made little comments that he knows are supposed to show him just that. Plus, he can tell. She's getting progressively worse at hiding it. They both seem to have that problem.

That's exactly why he's here. He can't not be and he can't seem to hide it anymore. He's worried and he hates it when she tries to fight her demons off alone. He just hates it when she tries to fight the war all by herself when she has so many people who would sign up to help in a heartbeat. When she has him.

He knocks. He's done letting her pretend that she can do this alone.

"Hey, Castle." Eyes: Sullen but not red-rimmed. Smile: Tight and close-lipped but not at all fake. Clothes: Baggy NYU sweatshirt and leggings. Okay, so she's wallowing but not drowning. "What do you got there?" He looks down, just remembering the bag of Italian food in his hand.

"Dinner." She turns around and walks over to her couch, plopping down and folding her legs underneath her. He follows, placing the food on her coffee table before sitting on the other side of the sofa. "How are you?" He hesitantly reaches over and puts a hand on her ankle. When she doesn't move away, he brushes his thumb over her skin.

"Fine." He gives her a pointed look, complete with a raised eyebrow and disbelieving eyes. "Maybe a little less than fine." Getting her to admit it is fine for now and so he doesn't push.

"Thought so. Food?" Nudging the bag with his foot, he watches her face for signs that she's far hungrier than she's letting on. Turns out he doesn't have to because her stomach decides to betray her.

"What did you bring me?" She sits up, grabbing the takeout and tearing through the containers. Yeah, she's starving.

"You get the choice between Fettuccine Alfredo and Chicken Parm. I'll eat whatever you don't want. And there may be some chocolate cake in there. But you only get that special treat if you're nice to me." Rolling her eyes, she fishes the pasta and a plastic fork out of the bag and digs in. "I guess I'll be having the chicken then."

"And cake. Don't forget cake." She points her fork at him and laughs.

"Oh, so you're going to be nice to me? This is new."

"I'm nice to you." She says the words around a mouthful of pasta and he has to clamp down on his chicken to keep from laughing. It's adorable, this side of Beckett that he's just been privy to these last few months. The side that lights up when she feeds pigeons, the side that wrinkles her nose at broccoli and has to cradle a pillow to her chest during scary movies.

"Yes, I see now. All of those eye rolls and quips about my competence threw me off a little." He lets out that laugh and is immediately confronted with the narrowed eyes of his partner.

"Would you rather I adopt Gates' point of view?" Eyes widening, he shakes his head vehemently. "Didn't think so."

"You could always balance out the attacks on my theories with other, nicer things that I'd enjoy." He waggles his eyebrows at her, sure that if his meaning hadn't gotten across she completely understood now. She only raised an eyebrow.

"Oh? And what would these nicer things entail?" He gulps. He was not expecting _that_ voice. That low, throaty voice that she knows, she totally knows, gets him every time. Damn.

"I'm sure you could think of something worthwhile." He's grateful that a great big mouthful of incomprehensible sounds didn't slip out and actual words did.

"Maybe I'll let you have the last eggroll every now and again." He pouts but she's smirking, glancing at him out of the corner of her eye as she goes back to her food.

They eat the rest of their meal in silence, not that he thinks Beckett spends more than a few seconds without food in her mouth the entire time. Damn, did she not eat at all today? They ate lunch together so she – oh, they got that lead not even halfway through lunch. She really hasn't eaten today. Suddenly he's really glad he thought to bring food as an excuse. A flimsy excuse, sure, but she doesn't look like she's complaining.

The haze of lingering thoughts clears when he hears her put her empty container on the coffee table. He's not quite done yet but he's only been pecking at his food. He doesn't tend to eat much when he's worried. So he leans over, picks up the remnants of her dinner as well as his and makes his way to her kitchen. He takes his time, pouring two glasses of water and getting forks for that cake if they end up eating it later.

If she doesn't kick him out for prying. He thinks they're past that but he never really knows with her. It doesn't really help that he can't figure out what kind of state she's in, how much this case has affected her. And so he takes his time in the kitchen, busying himself with unnecessary tasks while she sits silently in the other room.

He'd forgotten why he'd come here with all of that smiling and teasing. The looming darkness of her tragedy overhead didn't seem present in her eyes. But it hasn't simply gone away, it was only buried for a moment. Hibernating, waiting for its next opportunity to emerge and feed on her conviction. One day, it'll be gone for good. One day. Maybe one day soon.

He knows what comes next. He knows what conversation they'll have, or at least what conversation he'll try to have. Turning around and sucking in a deep breath, he carries the glasses of water and hopefully an air of nonchalance back over to the couch. When he can finally see her face, she's looking down and he curses inwardly that he can't see her eyes. Setting the water down on the table, he takes his seat back and opens his mouth to begin what he came over here to do. If he could only find the right wo–

"What if I never close it?" _She's_ starting the conversation? That's unexpected. But welcome.

"We will. Eventually." We. He needs her to know that he's in this; he's standing right there with her in the darkness. Even if she can't see him.

"I don't want to spend my life chasing after something I'll never reach." Just like how you're chasing after her, the sadistic voice in his head reminds him. But it's the curse of so many, too many. Flashes of a green light and shattered dreams flit across his vision but then she's speaking again. "I keep getting so close only to have it slip away. And what if it's always going to be that way?"

"Then you move on because you have to." He sees her jaw tighten almost imperceptibly and it makes him ache with the need to take it all back but he doesn't want her to keep living among the shadows. Tragic. Asymptotic.

"I'm trying." She pulls her mother's ring from under her sweatshirt, light catching on the metal as it spins.

"I know." He almost whispers it, not wanting to break the stubborn concentration she seems to have on the spinning ring. Around and around. Worlds turning, time passing, everything changing around this one constant.

"It's hard." She bites her lip, still watching the ring make its rotations. A rotation for every day she's lived with it. A rotation for every day this has sat on her shoulders.

"I know." It's all he can think to say. Nothing else seems worthy. Hell, that doesn't even seem worthy but he can't really sit here and say absolutely nothing. She's still staring at the ring as it spins, seemingly mesmerized. He doesn't like the way she's staring at it. Desperate. Hungry. Mourning. His hand shoots out and grabs the ring, stopping it. She looks up at him, startled, as if she'd forgotten he was here for a moment.

"I don't know if I can let go of it. I've been telling myself that I can but I don't know..." If I'm strong enough. Who I am without it. So many ways to finish that sentence, none of which he's particularly fond of.

"Kate," he moves the hand enclosing the ring a bit until it's dangling on his pinky, "you're one of the strongest people I know. You'll get through this. You'll conquer it." He has a quip on the tip of his tongue, ready to diffuse the tension. But he doesn't let it loose, corralling it because it doesn't feel right to diffuse this. She glances down, a hand coming to play with her mother's ring resting on his finger.

Her fingers start to rub the metal as she looks back up at him, tipping her head to the side as if considering him. Perhaps to see if he really believes that, if he actually thinks she can do it. He does. He believes that with a conviction that surprises him sometimes. He believes in her.

"Do you really think that?" It's not often that Beckett looks for verbal validation when she can so easily see it in his eyes. She must really need it. And he'll willingly give it whenever she asks.

"I know you will." He flicks his gaze to their hands, debating how wise his next statement is. But he needs her to know and he's never been that good at holding back anyway. "And I'll be here to hold you up when the doubts resurface. Even when you don't think you need me to."

Oh, damn. He told himself he wasn't going to push and yet here he is, ramming into that wall. He doesn't want to look at her, doesn't want to see her recoiling because it hurts. It just hurts so much to see her pull away. But he has to look, has to determine if he can throw a quick save in there. When he looks back up at her, he's sure she must have jerked back so quickly that he fell over and hit his head. That expression she's currently sporting can't be right.

There's no way she's looking up at him like that, eyes shining with the emotions she hasn't been trying to hide recently. Emotions he dare not name in case he jinxes it. This isn't the way it works with them. He pushes, she retreats. It's what they do however tired of it he is. That smile can't be real because the murder board is open behind them and he tried to just blow right by it.

She's going to hide her heart again, in a new and even trickier spot that he'll have to spend months looking for. A twisted game of hide and seek. One that someday he knows he'll lose. So this full-bloomed smile and these eyes twinkling as if there are thousands of little stars secreted away into their depths can't be real, no matter how much he wants them to be. They simply cannot be.

He's proven wrong by the feeling of her lips on his.

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><p><em>Review? Give me a little something to be happy about during exam week?<em>


	4. Chapter 4

A warm breeze caresses her face as she rolls over on the long grass around her, the sun's rays beating down on her body. The summer sun has made the usually cool grass a cocoon of warmth that she can't help but burrow deeper into. The grass is tall enough that she can't see anything but the blue sky when she looks up from her position on her side and the occasional yellow pop of a sunflower peeking out from the usual earthy green.

She can feel individual blades brushing up against her skin, running down her arms as the breeze makes them sway. Occasionally a few tickle her face, the grass brushing her nose or her–

Lips. She feels the wet warmth of a pair of lips on her forehead. They feather down the side of her face, pausing at her temple to press a little harder before continuing. She shifts, leaning her head towards his mouth. Mmm, Castle.

His fingers run up and down her arm, fingernails seemingly tracing the veins around her wrist. She resists the urge her eyelids have to flutter open when his breath caresses her skin, not quite awake yet and hoping to feign sleep a little longer. She can't suppress the small, contented smile though.

"Beautiful. So beautiful." He rumbles and she can tell that his face is right in front of hers. He clearly hasn't realized she is awake yet. One of his hands abandons her arm and she frowns before a finger comes to run across her bottom lip. Unable to resist, she lightly kisses the digit and she both feels and hears the soft chuckle that escapes him. He leaves his finger there, resting on her lips. She traps it between her teeth. He sighs.

Just then she feels him move, his fingers leaving her body as the bed dips. She hears him pad over to the door, bumping into something – apparently it is still dark – before she hears the click of the door opening. Then he's gone.

Her eyes open, not taking long to adjust to the darkness of the room before her brow furrows. She listens for signs that he is coming back – footsteps outside the door, him knocking into something because she could tell he hadn't turned any lights on, anything. But there is nothing. There are only the sounds of the city below them as time goes on outside of their little cocoon. She stays there for a few minutes, waiting on him to come back to her bed, before throwing back the covers and going after him.

Quietly, she opens the door and steps out. The only light in the apartment is filtering in through the windows, moonlight combined with the flashing lights of the city. The light leaves interesting patterns of light and shadow spread across her apartment, especially the isolated patches of light coming in through the spaces on her murder board. Those patches are getting bigger and bigger as the window is gradually stripped of index cards and pictures. She feels a quick pang in her chest, an acute ache that she recognizes but continues to ignore. She is doing the right thing, living her life and not reliving her past.

In the shadows of her apartment, she almost doesn't see him standing by the island in her kitchen. She doesn't like the look of it, of Castle standing completely still in the darkness. His back is turned to her, covered by a t-shirt he definitely didn't have on when he was lying in her bed. She had taken that shirt off hours ago. But even with the shirt on she can still see the muscles of his back, rigid with a tension she wishes she could somehow take from him.

She knows that he'd heard her pad into the living room and that he can probably hear her breathing in the still apartment. Yet he's made no move to turn to her, has given her no sign that he knows she's even there.

"Castle?" Nothing. "Rick?" He turns his head at that, eyes widening when he sees her standing there.

"Kate." Maybe he didn't hear her before.

"What's wrong?" She walks closer, resting her hand on his forearm when she gets close enough. He's significantly taller than her when they're both barefoot so she has to tilt her head back more than usual when looking at his eyes. It feels good. It feels natural to be looking at him in the darkness of her apartment when he's wearing only a t-shirt and his boxers and her hair is most likely frizzy and rumpled from sleep.

"It's nothing, Ka–"

"Detective, Castle." He presses his lips together, his mouth forming a thin line as he thinks. She wants to help him. She wants to help him like he's helped her and to do that she can't back down. She reaches up and runs her index finger over his lips like he'd done to hers earlier.

"I'm going to screw this up." His lips move around her finger as he says it, giving her a teasing touch of moisture. But she doesn't notice. She notices nothing but his words as they echo around the room.

"No." It just seems so obvious to her.

"No?" His eyebrows knit together and she finally removes her finger from his mouth, her hand falling back to her side as she continues to stare at him.

"If anyone is messing this up then it's going to be me." How doesn't he get this? She's damaged. She's broken. She wants to love him but doesn't know how.

"Kate," he sighs and grabs her hand, "you're trying to put your mother's murder behind you. You're trying to put yourself back together. You're working on yourself and, damn it, you're progressing. But I have a history of screwing up relationships that I have to carry around, chains that I can't find the key to. I'm gonna screw this up." She's shaking her head, squeezing his fingers so tightly that she can see them turning white.

"Doesn't mean I'm not going to screw this up, screw us up." Even though she knows there's a chance that she'll mess everything up, drive a wedge between them that she won't be able to remove, she doesn't regret it. She doesn't regret starting this with him, letting him into her life and her heart. The thought makes her smile. "But I don't regret us." She has to let him know. She has to make him see what she's come to realize: that the risk is worth it.

"Neither do I. Oh, Kate, I could never." He gives her hand a squeeze, the other coming to rest on her forearm.

"Good." The amount of conviction behind her words startles her. She didn't know how much emotion was behind that, how hurt she would've been if he'd regretted starting this thing between them even for a second. It would hurt like hell.

"But I don't know what I'd do if I lost you after knowing what it's like to have you." She understands that one. She feels the same, doesn't know how she'd go on after feeling his lips against hers or hearing the sizzling of the bacon and eggs he's cooked her for breakfast. She'd miss him so much.

"I know." She suddenly has an idea of how he must've felt that summer, losing her to her own pain after thinking he'd lost her to a gunshot. Three months. He'd just found out that she was alive and she'd locked him out for three whole months. That poor, dedicated, amazing man. "I'm so sorry, Castle."

"For what?"

"I just didn't think about you. I was only thinking about myself. I was selfish and I hurt you and I'm sorry. I can't imagine what that was like. I don't think I wanted to imagine it until now. You were hurting and confused and I just ran away. I just left–"

"Kate, what are you talking about?" She looks up at him, seeing the confusion painted on his face. She's just so sorry.

"When I was shot." She feels ashamed. She feels unworthy of this man who waited for her. She looks away.

"Oh, Kate," he runs his hands up her arms, "that's not what I meant. I wasn't trying to make you feel bad–"

"I know. But I just realized." She leans into him, resting her forehead on his shoulder as his arms encircle her body. This is how it should be. She hopes she gets to inhale his scent for a long time. She's not sure if she means at this particular moment or for years to come. She decides not to dwell on it.

"You don't have to apologize." He hauls her to his chest, pressing her firmly against him. She meant years. She knows it. She's letting herself dwell on it and it feels oddly wonderful.

"Yes, I do." She does. She should've a long time ago but now is better than never. Though not by much.

"It's okay." He presses his face into her hair and she hears him take a deep breath, inhaling her scent just like she's inhaling his. He wants years too. She knows that as well. She's known it for a long time.

"It's not okay." She murmurs the words into his skin, wrapping her arms around his waist. She feels the pull of sleep but something nags at her from the back of her brain. She can't quite tell what she's trying to tell herself, the fingers at her back a welcome distraction that makes the words hazy.

"I get it." Then it hits her. He's trying to make it seem like no big deal. She hurt him and he's letting her get away with it. No. That is not okay. She can't let him do this. She can't let him make a habit of it.

"Rick," she pulls away from his embrace, suddenly very awake, "I hurt you. You can't let me get off this easily for it."

"It's fine, Kate." His words are nonchalant, but his eyes tell her not to push. Too bad.

"No. I'm not letting you do this. You can't just let me off the hook for hurting you. You have to tell me when I hurt you, when I make a mistake. I plan on giving us the best chance we've got and I can't do that when I don't know that I'm hurting you." He steps closer to her, arms out as if he plans to hug her again, but she backs away. He's trying to distract her. She won't let him. They're having this conversation.

"Kate–"

"That's how small cuts turn into infections. That's how inconspicuous lumps turn into fatal diseases. They go undetected. They're ignored. I don't want to infect our relationship. I can't give us a disease that we can't stop the spread of." Her chest constricts, heart clenching at the thought of the silent fights and unsolvable problems down that road. She can't stop them from going down it, but she can stop herself from driving them there. And if that means making him get mad at her then so be it. At least screaming is communication.

He reaches for her again. This time she lets him engulf her, lets him wind his arms around her shoulders and pull her to his body. She feels her heartbeat slowing to a normal rate and her shoulders relaxing against his chest. Mmm, she needs him. She can't let him go. She can't drive him away.

"Say it, Castle. Say it."

"I was hurt."

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><p><em>Sorry this has taken so long. I was dealing with some medical issues and then the giant amount of schoolwork I had accumulated because of those medical issues. The next gap between chapters should not be anywhere as long.<em>

_Review?_


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